


After great pain a formal feeling comes

by Argendriel



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AU after the hypothetical end of DA:4, Angst, Gen, Trespasser Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 23:02:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5068219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argendriel/pseuds/Argendriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the hypothetical end of Dragon Age 4, the former Inquisitor returns home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After great pain a formal feeling comes

The wind is colder this time of year. It's carrying the damp scent of rotting leaves and the smoke rising from the chimneys of the nearby city.  
The fields, laden with corn during the summer, are stripped bare now - only a few birds are still picking leftover grains from between the withering stalks. 

The first frost is coming soon, he can smell it on the air, feel it, the ache in what's left of his arm a constant reminder of all that lies behind him. 

He travels alone, has left his duties, his now empty titles and responsibilities behind him. He has said his farewells, packed what few belongings he wanted to keep, made empty promises of staying in contact. What strength can kinship born of a shared purpose hold when the purpose that drew them together is gone? What is left of their motley crew will be drifting apart soon, a big part of them having left already, filled with new purpose or simply the wish to leave the past behind them, to forget, to start afresh in this new age.

There is no path or sign that can direct him to his destination. He has to navigate based on what he remembers of the reports, written years ago now. He remembers them well, though, has committed to memory every line, every word, every stroke of the quill, every spot of ink. 

There is the cliff that fits the description, here the bend in the small stream and right over that small ridge... 

Ah, yes. 

A person not searching would miss them completely, invisible between the brush, what sparse markers there were long since overgrown and crooked. Brushed aside by the elements, the seasons, and probably one or the other spiteful human hand. 

Even more resentment after this whole mess, enough to disturb even the long gone among them. 

There really is not much to look at and he hesitates, silently wondering what he's been expecting to find. He has read the reports countless times, the paper they were written on is brittle and creased, ripped and stained. And yet he keeps them, some of the very few possessions he still owns, that he never misplaces, never throws out. 

They are reminders of his greatest failure. 

He can still recall the numbness after the final report. Not even Solas' betrayal had come close – Solas had been a dear friend, but he had never been family. 

Before, he had never spent a lot of time to reflect on the bonds he shared with his clan. He had never been a model of Dalish pride, had no close blood ties left. And yet.  
The great stillness that had entered his mind after the report had told a different tale. Blood ties are of little importance when it comes to a sense of family. 

The wind strokes the leaves on the bushes, rustling, moving them just enough to catch a glimpse at the carving on a small, hand-hewn stone. It is crude, as if created in a hurry, without the proper tools, and half covered with moss, but he can still recognise the shape of a stylised Halla. 

He wonders who placed the markers here. He assumes it had been the same agents of the Inquisition who had sent the reports, but what if... no.

The guilt had come late. There had been no time for proper grief, for guilt, for what-ifs and could-haves. It had hit, over two years after the fact, with a simple sentence of “There might still be survivors” - thrown at him as an aside to a different conversation. 

The thought that he had done nothing, had never doubted the news, never dared to hope, never conducted a search for over two years had struck him deeper than the fact that he had made the choice that condemned his clan in the first place. 

Sera's people had never found anyone. He had not expected any differently. 

They had been a mistrusted people even before; it had only gotten worse since. No matter the number of elves refusing to follow the Trickster's call, no matter that two of the great heroes of the last decades – who had bled, suffered and sacrificed so much for the people of Thedas - were Elvhen. Considering the damage that had been wrought, he can't even blame them. 

But if there had been survivors, they had probably not survived for long. Not more than two years. Not after Everything. 

He brushes away dead leaves and small, broken branches until he reaches the earth next to the small stone marker. He is lucky that it is still too early in the year for the ground to be frozen solid. 

He uses an old dagger – the first one he found back when he was still prisoner of the Inquisition instead of its leader - to break up the dirt. No shovel and only one hand make for poor digging.  
The hole is just deep enough so that curious animals might not dig it up again right away.  
For a small moment, he hesitates, taking a deep breath before sliding the small satchel he carries off his shoulder. 

The first item he places in the hole is the signet ring bearing the Inquisition's mark.  
The Inquisition is well and truly over and done with, no purpose anymore, not even a formal function. He hopes there will be no need for it to rise again for at least the next few centuries. As intimately as he knows the politics of their world now, though, he has little hope. 

What follows next is a necklace. A simple leather string, torn and singed, attached to it the fragment of a wolf's jawbone. 

The old dagger follows. It has served its purpose well and can now serve him no more. Nostalgia, he has found, is a poison more then a balm to him. 

Last is a bundle of old parchment, brittle and creased, ripped and stained.

He gently places them on top of the small pile.

He has to force himself not to linger because he fears he would take the papers back if he stares at them too long. The hole fills up fast and he is pressing down on the soil to harden it. He grabs a few stones and creates a small heap, then brushes the leaves back over it. In the unlikely case someone could pass by, they don't need to be digging up old memories. 

When he is done, the bruise coloured sky is already beginning to darken. He stands, roughly brushing off the dirt clinging to his knees. He grabs his satchel, slightly lighter now, and turns away in the direction of the open road. He will not stay in Wycome. He has not come to bury his guilt, his grief and the last fragments of his origins to be confronted with the families of the people who slaughtered his clan. 

He will camp on the open plains again. Though his hair may be greying, his eyes are tired and he looks every bit like a war crippled soldier, the outdoors are no challenge to him. 

His clan, no, his family, taught him better. He will remember them when he sits down by his camp-fire tonight, watching the stars, recalling the stories they told. 

Even if he now knows all of them to be lies and fairy tales. He is almost glad that they never had to witness this whole, miserable affair. 

Small favours. 

 

Later, when all is quiet and the sea of stars is yawning above him, the embers softly smouldering in the fire pit, he wonders if the make-shift grave will be more than just symbolism. No sudden weight has been lifted off his shoulders, the grief is still a cold and empty space in his heart. 

The memory of his clan, his family, is not the only thing he laid down this day. It's the memories of dear friends lost, of brave comrades fallen, of worthy foes slain. He can not carry them all on his own anymore and he won't burden others to share the load. 

The black, star studded sky bears down on him like a shroud. There is a sense of closure in every breath he takes. He has been torn between apathy and restlessness ever since the last of their fallen had been laid to rest. Now, it seems, his heart may find some peace again after all. A wound that has healed can still ache – he knows this much. Maybe the grief in his heart will forever stay, maybe this is the way it's supposed to be. But he feels that maybe, maybe he can finally move on, let go of the past. He has no clan, no duties, no purpose anymore. He is a blank slate yet again. 

It might be time to lay down his name along with the memories of his clan. Let it finally rest and dissolve into the mist of history and legends. There is no place in this new world for relics of the past. 

Someday, he might yet meet some of his old comrades again. There is no telling what the future may hold. But he has felt the bitterness of their shared memories cloud the air between them, and he feels as if time has to pass before they are all able to look at each other again without the most painful of memories resurfacing. None of them escaped the war unscathed, if not in body, then in spirit. Some in both. Some did not escape at all. 

On a whim, he raises a small flask up to the stars.

To the broken. To the lost. To those who may watch him from a different world, and to those who will never watch anyone ever again.

To the dead and gone. 

He does not have it in himself to feel foolish, too weary of the past, too wary of the future. 

In the morning, he will move on, like he always has. But he will move on not as an Inquisitor, a hero, a saviour of the world twice over. Not even as Lavellan, last remnant of his clan.

Just another soldier, scarred by the war, in search of home.

**Author's Note:**

> This may have been a bit disjointed and rambly. Apologies - not being a native speaker and not having written anything in a long while takes its toll.
> 
> Kink-meme fill. 
> 
>  
> 
> The title was taken from Emily Dickinson's poem.
> 
> After great pain a formal feeling comes--  
> The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs;  
> The stiff Heart questions--was it He that bore?  
> And yesterday--or centuries before?  
> The feet, mechanical, go round  
> A wooden way  
> Of ground, or air, or ought,  
> Regardless grown,  
> A quartz contentment, like a stone.  
> This is the hour of lead  
> Remembered if outlived,  
> As freezing persons recollect the snow--  
> First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.


End file.
